Killigrew and the Incorrigibles

by Jonathan Lunn

  Cusack coughed awkwardly, and whispered something in Quested’s ears. The captain sighed, and nodded. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  The door opened, and three men entered: Mrs Cafferty recognised one of them as Mr Forgan from when she had come on board.

  ‘Well, come on in, gentlemen,’ said Quested. ‘We haven’t got all day. Sit down, sit down. You’ve all dined with a woman before now, I hope.’

  ‘Aren’t introductions in order?’ suggested Mrs Cafferty.

  Quested sighed again. ‘Mr Macy, Mr Forgan and Mr Gardner: my chief, second and third mates respectively. Gentlemen, this is Mrs Cafferty and Mr Cusack.’

  The three mates sat down at the table while the negro served breakfast: flapjacks and coffee. Quested took a mahogany box from the seat-locker and opened it. Mrs Cafferty gasped when she saw what lay on the green-baize lining within.

  Hands.

  There were eight of them, all in black leather gloves, all in different attitudes: one flat, one relaxed, one clenched in a fist, one holding a dagger. Quested unscrewed the hook from the stump of his left arm and selected another hand from the box – one holding a fork – to replace it.

  Mrs Cafferty cleared her throat. ‘If it’s not a rude question, Captain Quested, might I enquire as to how you came to… ah…?’ She was not sure how to finish the sentence without risking giving offence to the volatile captain.

  Mr Forgan came to her rescue. ‘A shark took it off, ma’am. A great white, off the coast of Tanna in the New Hebrides.’

  ‘That was no shark, Mr Forgan,’ growled Quested.

  Forgan flushed. ‘Whatever you say, Cap’n.’

  Cusack was intrigued. ‘If not a shark, then what?’

  ‘Shall we start?’ suggested Mr Macy, indicating that it was a subject best steered clear of, at least in the captain’s presence.

  All four of the ship’s officers were about to tuck in when they noticed that Cusack and Mrs Cafferty had clasped their hands to say grace. Cusack had done so first, but Mrs Cafferty had quickly picked up on his lead. She was not a very religious woman – all the things St Paul had to say about women put her off taking Christianity too seriously – but she was already starting to look at Cusack as a possible ally against the convicts and the whaler-men, and it would do no harm if he thought she were every bit as pious as he. And just in case there was a God and he was listening, it would not do her any harm to have Him as an ally too.

  ‘Keep me, Lord, attentive at prayer, temperate in food and drink, diligent in my work, firm in my good intentions.’

  ‘Amen,’ said Mrs Cafferty, and there was a muttering of ‘amens’ around the table; only Quested himself did not join in the prayer, watching the rest of them with a sneer of contempt.

  ‘It’s not often we have the pleasure of a señora on board,’ Mr Forgan hazarded in the awkward silence that followed.

  ‘I wish I could say the pleasure was mutual, Mr Forgan,’ she returned with a smile. ‘However, I find it hard to consider myself a guest when I am being held against my will. I would have thought “prisoner” would be a more apt description of my current circumstances.’

  Quested leaned back in his chair. ‘Well, now… you’re no less free to come and go than any passenger on board a transatlantic steamer.’

  ‘Except that most passengers on board transatlantic steamers had the choice of undertaking the voyage in the first place,’ said Mrs Cafferty. ‘Might I enquire as to what fate you intend for me? Not that I expect you to admit to it if you plan to murder me and throw my body overboard – suitably weighted down, naturally – but it might help me prepare myself mentally for such a fate if you were to give me a hint now.’

  ‘No one’s going to be throwing you overboard, ma’am,’ Cusack said firmly. ‘You have my word on that.’ He glared at Quested as if daring him to contradict; Mrs Cafferty wondered if they had already debated the matter.

  ‘And do you intend to keep me locked up in your stateroom twenty-four hours a day all the way to California?’

  ‘The boatsteerers take their meals in here after we do,’ said Quested. ‘While they do so, you’ll be allowed to walk the quarterdeck to get some fresh air, weather permitting. Under close supervision, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ she agreed mockingly. ‘Who knows? I might jump overboard, and swim all the way back to Norfolk Island.’

  ‘I propose a toast,’ Cusack said suddenly, tapping his wineglass with his knife to make the crystal ring. ‘Here’s to freedom—’

  Quested lunged across the table and brought his left hand down sharply over the ringing wineglass. It shattered under the blow. ‘What in hell do you think you’re playing at?’ he snarled.

  Cusack looked bewildered. ‘I merely wanted to thank you for my deliverance…’

  ‘Don’t you know it’s bad luck to let a glass ring on board ship? It sounds the death knell for a sailor who’ll drown, and I’ve lost enough men on this voyage as it is.’

  ‘Lucky the cap’n stopped it from ringing,’ Macy said with a weak grin, as if apologising for Quested’s superstitious nature. ‘That means the devil will take two soldiers instead.’

  The attempt at humour fell flat. In the awkward silence that ensued, Mrs Cafferty noticed that Quested had cut his palm. She picked up a napkin and tried to take his hand to bind the wound, but he snatched it away from her. ‘Leave it!’

  ‘But you’re bleeding!’

  ‘Leave it, I say! I’ll get the cook to look at it.’ He pushed back his chair and stormed from the cabin.

  ‘You’ll have to forgive the cap’n,’ said Macy. ‘He can be a little… superstitious.’

  ‘So I’d noticed,’ Mrs Cafferty said drily. ‘You were going to tell me how he came to lose his hand?’

  ‘It was a shark,’ said Macy. ‘And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.’

  Chapter 11

  Pursuit

  ‘Tell the captain what you just told me,’ Killigrew ordered Molineaux.

  In Robertson’s day-room on board the Tisiphone, the seaman eyed the expectant faces of the officers nervously. It was not that he was afraid of gold braid. Robertson could be intimidating, but after serving on the Tisiphone for twenty months the seaman had learned that the commander’s bark was worse than his bite; and the rest of the executive officers – Hartcliffe, Killigrew and Yelverton – were oh-kay. But what had seemed like a brilliant piece of deduction on the deck earlier was now starting to look riddled with holes.

  Robertson’s scepticism was hardly encouraging. ‘Go on, Molineaux,’ he ordered, throwing the manila folders Killigrew had given him on to the table. ‘I’m intrigued to know what piece of information that escaped myself and my officers was so easily picked up by an able seaman. Besides, since we’re not going to get anything out of Mr Fallon, it seems you are now our only hope, God help us.’

  ‘Is Fallon still not talking, sir?’ asked Killigrew.

  ‘Fallon’s done all the talking he’ll ever do, Mr Killigrew. He’s dead. It seems he put up a struggle when Price and his two guards tried to transfer him from one instrument of torture to another, and the guards were a little overenthusiastic in subduing him.’

  Killigrew looked as if he had been gut-punched. Molineaux had seen that look on the young officer’s face before, and knew that in some way he was blaming himself for what had happened. But then Killigrew could feel guilty if a child starved on the streets of Peking while he himself was dining in comfort in a restaurant in London.

  ‘Needless to say, I shall be lodging a strongly worded protest about Mr Price’s methods with the comptroller-general of convicts when we get back to Hobart Town,’ added Robertson.

  ‘I shouldn’t bother if I were you, sir,’ drawled Hartcliffe. ‘From what I hear, Dr Hampton knows damn’ well about the brutality here on Norfolk Island, and turns a blind eye. He gave Price his full backing during that row when the Reverend Mr Rogers published that book condemning the brutality on the island last year.’


  ‘Considering that the reverend had been dismissed as the Anglican chaplain on the island only a few months earlier, it’s hardly surprising that Hampton disregarded the book as sour grapes on the reverend’s part; perhaps a complaint from me will bear out Roger’s accusations as being not entirely without foundation. Nevertheless, point taken, First. I shall address my letter to Sir William Denison. Damn it, I’ll even send a copy to Lord Palmerston if needs be. However, we’re getting off the point. Molineaux, perhaps you’d care to proceed?’

  The seaman gestured to the charts on the table. ‘May I, sir?’

  ‘By all means.’

  Molineaux picked up the folders Robertson had put on the table and was about to transfer them to the bureau in one corner when something caught his eye.

  ‘I’ll take those,’ said Robertson.

  The seaman did not hear him. He felt as though he had just been struck by lightning.

  ‘I said, I’ll take those,’ repeated Robertson, holding out one hand.

  Molineaux stood as if rooted to the spot, staring at one of the files he held. Robertson had to drag the manila folders from him by force, and did not look pleased about it.

  ‘Are you all right, Molineaux?’ asked Killigrew.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I said, are you all right?’

  Molineaux finally remembered where he was. ‘Me, sir? Right as rain.’

  ‘Then stop mooning about like a lovelorn footman and get on with it, damn your impudence!’ snapped Robertson, hammering a fingertip against the charts on the table. ‘And when I speak to you in future, I expect you to respond promptly and attentively, hoist in?’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Molineaux hid his awkwardness behind the charts, shuffling through them until he found one that covered the whole of the Pacific. ‘It’s all a question of where the convicts aren’t going, sir. The way I see it, if we take away the places we know they’re not headed, we’ll find there aren’t that many places they can go. For one thing, we know they’re going to avoid any British territory like the plague: so they won’t head west to the Australias, or south to New Zealand. They could try heading around the south of Van Diemen’s Land and western Australia to get into the Indian Ocean, but they’d be battling against the Westerlies all the way. I can’t see them heading north-west past New Guinea and through the East Indies either: any shipping they’re likely to run into is going to be British ships or pirates, and I can’t see them wanting to fall in with either of those. So now we’ve got to ask ourselves just where they are bound. You’re an Irish rebel looking for a safe place to live, beyond the reach of British justice, somewhere where you’ll get a warm welcome. Where would you go?’

  ‘The United States,’ Hartcliffe said firmly. ‘America’s full of Irish emigrants, not all of them poor peasants who left Ireland during the famine. Some of them are quite wealthy, in fact; and someone must’ve put up the money for this rescue attempt. It can’t be cheap to charter a whaling ship and her crew for the best part of a year.’

  Molineaux nodded. That’s the way I see it, sir. But east coast or west? I’m putting my money on the west.’

  ‘Based on what reasoning?’ demanded Robertson.

  ‘Two things, sir. Firstly, to reach the east coast, they’d have to sail south-east. Fine once they get into the Roaring Forties: they’ll have the Westerlies behind them all the way to Cape Stiff. But first they’ve—’

  ‘Do you think you could spare us your seaman’s slang and give Cape Horn the decency of its proper name?’ growled Robertson.

  ‘Sorry, sir, Cape Horn I mean. But first they’ve got to get there, and at this time of year they’ll be battling against the trade winds every step of the way. Then, once they reach Cape Sti— Cape Horn, they’ve reached a bottleneck between the cape and the northern limit of the pack ice. It’ll be winter here in the southern hemisphere at this time of year, with only a few miles between the two. They can’t risk the possibility we’ll guess that’s where they’re going, and wait for them there. I’ll admit neither reason’s convincing on its own, but put ’em together…’

  ‘All right, Molineaux, I’m with you so far,’ allowed Robertson. ‘The west coast of America it is. But how does that help us? We can hardly blockade all the ports of California: once they reach Yankee territorial waters, they’re out of our jurisdiction.’

  ‘Bear with me, sir. Now, what’s the quickest way to Californy from here? They could sail direct; but as soon as they cross the line they’ll come up against the north-east trade winds. If this cove Quested is a whaler then he knows the winds in this ocean, and he’ll go for the great circle route: run before the south-east trades as far as the Marshall Islands, and once he’s got the northern Westerlies behind him he’ll have an easy run all the way to Californy.’

  ‘That still gives us a lot of water to cover, Molineaux.’

  ‘I’m not done yet, sir. He’s not going to sail all the way to Californy without touching at land somewhere, is he? He’s going to want to pick up fresh water and fruit. Also, he’s just swapped three experienced hands for six convicts and an Irish rebel. Whalers usually carry a lot of greenhorns anyway; having some extra ones isn’t going to help him. He’s got to stop somewhere where he’s got a chance of taking on some experienced spouters.’

  ‘We’re looking at Pacific islands, Molineaux, not Massachusetts. Spouters looking for work are hardly going to be ten a penny in the South Seas.’

  ‘Actually, sir, he’s on to something,’ said Killigrew. ‘I’ve read a couple of books by an American chap who’s served on whalers. Melville, I think his name was. Anyhow, to hear him tell it, spouters are constantly deserting their ships on Pacific islands and waiting for the next whaler to come along. Discipline’s harsh on whalers, and the temptation to think the grass will be greener on another vessel must be strong. There are plenty of likely places in the South Seas where a spouter can wait for a whaler to come by: all these islands are riddled with trading stations which have try-works.’

  ‘I thought whalers carried their try-works on deck?’

  ‘They do, sir,’ said Molineaux. ‘But trying out blubber on the deck of a ship at sea is a chancy business. A lot of these traders have try-works at their stations which they let whalers use for free. That encourages the whalers to stop at their trading stations to pick up provisions while they’re about it.’

  ‘All right.’ Robertson stood up and started shuffling through the charts himself. ‘Let’s see, what are the first islands they’ll come to if they run before the trade winds?’

  ‘New Caledonia, sir,’ said Yelverton. ‘There are a couple of trading stations on the Isle of Pines.’

  ‘Two trading stations?’ queried Robertson. ‘How big an island is it?’

  Yelverton grinned. ‘Not big enough for two trading stations. The master of a sandalwood trader I spoke to when we were in Sydney told me all about it. There’s been real competition for sandalwood in New Caledonia and the New Hebrides over the past few years. The two main competitors are Captain Paddon and Robert Towns, although there are one or two others trying to pick up scraps of the trade, like hyenas hovering by during a fight between two lions: hyenas like John Kettle and Thaddeus Thorpe.’

  Robertson glanced at Killigrew. ‘Your friend,’ he said drily. The lieutenant shrugged.

  ‘Is there enough demand for sandalwood to justify all this competition?’ the commander asked Yelverton.

  ‘It fetches a high price in Shanghai, sir.’

  Killigrew nodded. ‘The Chinese burn it as incense in their joss-houses. I understand these islands are also a source of bêche-de-mer, which is considered a great delicacy in China.’

  Robertson knitted his brows. ‘Bêche-de-mer?’

  ‘Sea slug, sir.’

  ‘I’m sorry I asked.’

  ‘Actually, it’s not bad. A little salty, though.’

  ‘Thank you, Killigrew, we all know what an expert you are on Chinese culture. Returning to the issue in hand: what are
you saying, Molineaux? You think the Lucy Ann is headed for the Isle of Pines?’

  ‘Either there, or one of the trading stations in the New Hebrides.’

  ‘Plenty of trading stations there,’ said Yelverton. ‘Paddon’s got his main base at Aneiteium; there’s one on Tanna at Port Resolution – I think that’s owned by Kettle – and of course there’s Thorpetown on Éfaté.’

  ‘That gives us four places to look, Molineaux. Unless you can narrow it down further?’

  The seaman shook his head.

  ‘Give Molineaux his due, sir,’ said Killigrew. ‘He’s narrowed it down from the whole of the Pacific to four locations. That’s better than any of us could do.’

  Robertson sat down once more and steepled his fingers. ‘I don’t know, gentlemen. It’s flimsy – damn’ flimsy.’

  ‘There’s no harm in trying, sir,’ said Killigrew. He spoke with an enthusiasm Molineaux had not seen in the young officer for many months. ‘I don’t think that any of us would argue that the Lucy Ann’s headed north. And another thing, sir. Wadrokal – the Polynesian negro I tried to help in Hobart Town – he was from the New Hebrides. Aneiteium, I think he said. Chances are that’s where Quested took him on. If Quested’s on the run, don’t you think he’s going to want to head for familiar territory? Even if he doesn’t stop at any of those islands, if they’re as busy as Yelverton seems to suggest then someone at one of those trading stations is bound to have seen something or heard word of the Lucy Ann. And we were going to visit the New Hebrides on our way back from the Fijis. All we have to do is visit the New Hebrides first, and then go on to the Fijis.’

  ‘It’s not much of a plan,’ said Robertson. ‘However, in the absence of a better one… the New Hebrides it is.’

  * * *

  ‘If I wanted to work for a living, I would have turned honest years ago,’ grumbled Swaddy Blake. He stood next to Lissak, part of a human chain that stretched from the fresh-water butts in the waist to the scuttlebutt at the taffrail, passing buckets down the line to replenish the latter from the former.